Cara Mia
by Garbage and City Lights
Summary: The son of Bloody Face is born. What does this mean for Marilyn? (Continuation of "Not Fade Away")
1. Chapter 1

Marilyn screamed.

Her head floated in a seemingly endless fog of drugs. Everything was softened at the edges, ethereal and not quite there, except for the pain. The pain was everywhere, razor-sharp, incredible in its power.

She supposed it might have been unbearable if the doctor hadn't administered the IV of painkillers that dripped slowly through the needle at the fold of her arm, but it just barely kept her sane — instead of taking away the pain, it only deadened it, like a bullet shot into a pillow to muffle the sound.

Another scream ripped its way from her throat as a series of knifelike cramps stabbed at her pelvis, insistent and unforgiving. Marilyn strained at the cuffs around her wrists but they held strong.

"Let me _go!"_ she shrieked, struggling uselessly against her bonds. "Let me _go, _I _hate _you, you're _insane, _I want to go to a _hospital, let me go let me go—"_

Oliver straightened from his position between her legs and hurried to her side, his nose and mouth hidden behind a sterile white doctor's mask. He pulled it off and set it on the nightstand beside the bed so he could press his lips to her sweat-soaked brow.

"I know, Marilyn, I know," he said soothingly, brushing a wet tendril of blonde hair from her face. "Childbirth is the most painful event known to man, it can make you say things you don't mean."

His dark eyes were patient and shining with love. The sight made her physically ill.

She was like a caged wildcat; the pain and adrenaline coursing through her had wiped away any affection she'd once had for this man, this maniac who'd kept her prisoner in the basement for weeks until finally the labor pains began and he fastened the cuffs around her wrists.

The doctor looked her over once, twice, then leaned his nose against her cheek, utterly overcome.

"You're so strong," he whispered. "You're not like them. You're special. You can do this."

_Them. _The constant reminder of how — and where — she could end up if she didn't play her cards right.

But right now, fuck the cards, because there was a sudden terrible pressure between her legs and she wailed helplessly into Oliver's ear.

He jerked back and fetched his face mask at once, fixing over his mouth again.

"It's coming," he said excitedly, eyes bright as a little boy's behind his black-rimmed glasses. He hurried to the end of the bed where he'd strapped her legs apart, keeping them wide open and immobile.

_"Oliver!"_ Marilyn screamed, her animosity falling away in the face of this fresh hell. All at once she hated him, she loved him, she needed him because she couldn't remember a time she'd ever been so scared.

The pressure bore down and sharp silvery cracks of white-hot pain splintered through her.

"The baby's crowning, Marilyn," he explained in a strangely even voice, the one he probably used with his patients at the asylum. "The head is coming, this is the hardest part. I need you to push."

"I can't," she whimpered. To push would be the end of her; she'd split in two, she was sure of it.

"You _can." _Oliver's tone was firm, as though there would be no more on the subject. His dark eyes flicked to her behind the glinting lenses of his glasses. "Push."

Marilyn felt hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She whimpered again, flexed her hands uselessly against the wrist restraints, and tried to push.

Pain swept through her in a paralyzing wave. The pressure intensified and suddenly she knew she was going to die here, in a pool of her own blood on this bed with the plastic sheets, just another victim of Bloody Face — and she wouldn't even get the front page story. Wouldn't Lana laugh at _that._

"Good," Oliver said, leaning forward. "Good, just like that, I'm so proud of you. Again. Push."

She screamed and pushed again.

"Again," he repeated, and she could hear a sudden watery tremble in his voice, as though he were on the verge of tears. "Again, Marilyn, push!"

Marilyn screamed. Pushed again.

She was going to die and her child would be alone with Bloody Face.

Without being asked, she pushed again, enduring the steely slice of pain it brought on.

"Yes, that's it," Oliver said excitedly, and she felt him working between her legs, a place he knew very well indeed. The thought made her laugh deliriously. "Don't stop, the baby's almost here!"

Marilyn swallowed, braced herself, and pushed again, harder than ever. The pain built to an unbearable crescendo; just before she passed out there was a sudden release of pressure, a liquid sense of something letting go, and then there was nothing but the sweet, blessed relief of unconsciousness.

* * *

She resurfaced some time later, the world sliding slowly into focus as she opened her eyes.

She was looking at the crib, the sweet little crib with the lazily spinning mobile, but there was no baby in the crib.

"Oliver," Marilyn croaked, trying to sit up. Two things stopped her at once: the stab of pain that shot up from her lower half like a lightning strike, and the fact that her wrists were still cuffed above her head.

"Oliver," she said again. Her voice was frail, barely heard by her own ears.

The doctor was sitting in a chair near the workbench, leaning forward to stare at a small bundle of something in his lap. His eyes were wide, transfixed.

The baby. Why was the baby so quiet?

She began to struggle weakly against her bonds. Why was the baby so quiet? He wasn't a medical doctor, _that _was why, they should've gone to a hospital like she'd begged him to, oh god the panic was rising in her like an unstoppable murky tide, _why was the baby so quiet—_

Suddenly a tiny hand emerged from the bundle in the doctor's lap, five perfect little porcelain fingers flexing and grasping the air.

Oliver extended one of his own fingers towards the reaching hand like a man hypnotized. The little fingers closed around his immediately and held on.

She watched, relief flooding through her, as a single tear worked its way down his face.

"Oliver," Marilyn repeated, her voice slightly stronger now. "I want my baby."

He seemed not to hear her; the doctor moved his finger a little, but the tiny hand held tight.

"Oliver." She shook her wrists, rattling the cuffs against the bedposts, ignoring the unholy rush of pain that rolled through her. "I want my baby."

He was utterly engrossed, his dark eyes scanning the little bundle in his lap. She noted that his perfectly-styled hair had come loose during the birth and one piece hung unnoticed across his forehead.

A sudden animal instinct took hold of her when she realized he wasn't heeding her plea. Despite the pain it caused her Marilyn began fighting against her bonds like a wildcat that's been poked through the bars of its cage one too many times.

_"Oliver!"_ she shrieked. _"Oliver, I want my baby, give me my baby!"_

His head snapped up, the trance finally broken, and a radiant smile spread across his lips.

"Of course," he murmured, getting to his feet. He cradled the little bundle of blankets carefully in the crook of his arm as he approached, but to her dismay he set it down in the crib.

"I want my baby!" Marilyn cried again, thrashing like a madwoman. The doctor crossed back to her and took her face in his hands to press a long, hard kiss against her forehead.

"He's here, your baby's here." He began to stroke her hair with one hand as the other quickly worked each wrist out of its restraint. She thought for one wild moment that he meant himself, that he was going to try to take her again but there was no way she could do it, she was utterly broken down there and would never be whole again, and the panic increased to a fever pitch when he slipped the white cotton nightdress over her head, leaving her nude.

"Imprinting," Oliver explained patiently, and turned back to the crib. "It's critical. The baby needs to imprint with its mother as soon as possible. Skin-to-skin contact. I wanted to do it right away, but you were unconscious."

He lifted an impossibly small body in his arms, a tiny naked squirmy thing with a head of fine dark hair and grabby little hands. The doctor turned to her, proudly, and placed the baby in her arms.

"It's a boy," he whispered, smiling.

Marilyn stared down at her son, trying to take in every feature, the perfect little nose, the smooth pale skin, the dark hair as soft and fine as down. Oliver had already cleaned him; he smelled of sweet soap and fresh skin.

His deep brown eyes stared up at her. She knew where she'd seen those eyes before.

She couldn't recall ever holding a baby but some dusty hidden part inside her suddenly kicked to life like unused machinery. Her arms folded effortlessly around him, his head resting gently in the crook of her elbow, her free hand pulling him against her as close as he would get, their warm flesh pressed together just as the doctor had wanted.

Her son's lips pursed and opened, pursed and opened. He made no sound.

She knew at once she loved him.

Marilyn looked up to find Oliver staring at her, an unnamable expression on his face. He looked as though he was witnessing nothing short of a miracle.

When her eyes caught his he broke his reverie and moved closer, pulling the chair close to her bedside so he could sit near her.

"He needs to nurse," Oliver explained in a strange thick voice.

Marilyn frowned, unsure of what to do, but his large hands were suddenly there, readjusting the baby and her breast so the little mouth could purse and open close to her nipple. He moved the baby a little closer and the tiny lips closed over her breast at once.

She felt an odd tugging sensation, a faint pulse of pain, and then everything was at peace; as her son nursed, a wave of relief flowed through her like sweet medicine, a warm sleepy feeling that enveloped her like a blanket.

She let her eyes drift closed and leaned her head back against the pillow. Oliver drew the comforter up around her — she noted briefly that the plastic sheets were gone, replaced by the much more comfortable cotton ones — then began stroking her face tenderly with the pad of his thumb.

"The hormones should be kicking in," he explained softly. "It will help with the postpartum cramping. It will relax you. Breastfeeding is…"

The doctor drifted off as though his medical knowledge suddenly seemed unimportant.

"What are we going to call him?" he asked instead.

Marilyn leaned into his touch. The sleepy sensation creeping through her seemed to shut out memories of the unbearable pain, the animal panic, the utter hatred she'd felt for him in her moment of agony. Right now all she wanted was to enjoy the comforting weight of her son in her arms, the relief filling her body like a warm liquid, the loving way the doctor was stroking her cheek.

She ignored the cold metal tug of the chain that had been fastened around her ankle.

"Johnny," she murmured, running her fingers over the soft dark hair of her son's tiny head. "I've always liked the name Johnny."


	2. Chapter 2

She awoke with a sharp slap to her face. The pain spread like a slow burn across her cheek and Marilyn scrunched her eyelids closed hard, trying to avoid being brought into consciousness.

"Marilyn." The low, even voice thrummed through her ears like a drone of bees. "Marilyn, wake up."

But the pleasant haze of drugs still hung heavy in her head; it tried to pull her down, down into the thick cloud of easy floating nothing, until the slap came again, jolting her out of her reverie.

"No," she mumbled, because as soon as she began to rouse the pain below her waist struck hard and sudden. "No, please, let me sleep."

Another slap, this one harder, somehow more insistent.

"Damn it, Marilyn, _wake up."_ It was Oliver's voice, she knew this now, but it was tight with apprehension and - was it? - anger. "Wake up and feed your son."

Her eyes opened, reluctantly, and met the dark brown gaze she'd grown to know so well over the past year.

Oliver's brow was set in a determined frown behind his black-rimmed glasses. He held her chin now between his fingers, forcing her to look at him while she drifted back to the land of the living.

"Wake up," he repeated, "and feed your son."

"Oliver," she moaned, the deep-set pain between her legs shooting through her whole body. Marilyn shifted, the iron chain around her ankle clanking noisily, and grasped for the doctor's arm. When she finally found the material of his clean starched shirt she held on for dear life. "Oliver, please, I need more medicine. It hurts. It hurts so much."

"I can't." In the blurry swimming sea of her vision his face grimaced slightly. "I know it hurts, but I can only give you a little now. The baby needs to nurse, and the more drugs in your system, the more drugs in his." Oliver leaned closer and she saw that he was upset by her pain, certainly, but behind that was a strange sort of animal defiance.

"Please," Marilyn said again, and the doctor turned away from her, towards the crib.

"Feed your son." He brought the squirmy little bundle to her chest and folded her weak, feeble hands around it. Oliver's dark eyes searched her face as he tugged the white cotton nightgown down around her breast. "It's a mother's duty, Marilyn, you know that as well as I do."

"I can't," she whispered, but the doctor propped the little head up towards her nipple and the baby latched on, suckling desperately. Marilyn moaned, more pain shooting through her until the warm ease of hormones rushed into her veins and seemed to soften everything around the edges.

When the only sound in the dank basement air was Johnny suckling away contentedly, Oliver turned her chin towards him again.

"Marilyn," he murmured. "You're disappointing me."

She frowned lightly, forcing her eyes to focus on his.

"I'm sorry." The words fell from her lips like heavy stones. There was an IV in the crease of her arm, she figured this was the cause of her initial haze but it did little more than to dull the pain between her thighs. A lower dosage, she assumed, that the doctor had prescribed in the wake of her baby's hunger.

"A child needs his mother." Oliver's low rumble of a voice caused a strange shudder to roll through her. "I know that labor has taken a lot out of you but you need to rise to the occasion. It's imperative. Johnny will never need you more than he does right now, and you've spent so much time sleeping-"

"It hurts, Oliver," Marilyn protested weakly, and he nodded.

"I know. I know it does. And perhaps after the feeding you can have more medicine." His face was slack, an odd expression of both distaste and pity playing across his features as he released her chin. "I thought you stronger than this, Marilyn."

She squeezed her eyes closed again, strange hot tears prickling in their corners. She had a horrible sense of letting Oliver down, letting their son down, but she couldn't be sure how she'd done it.

How much blood had she lost in labor? There was no way to tell. Her friends who'd had children, they always seemed to bounce back almost instantly, but Marilyn could barely imagine feeling whole and healthy ever again, let alone anytime soon.

His fingers began to play lightly across her hairline, then tangle in the sweat-dampened locks of her blonde tresses.

"You're trying. I know you are." There was a moment, a tense pause, until she felt his fingers dip lower, tracing the line of her breast still covered by the nightgown.

"But so am I," he said, his voice almost a growl. "I'm trying, too, and it's very hard, Marilyn."

She wanted to tell him no, please, don't take her again - yes, some deep part of her burned hot for him, but her body simply wasn't ready yet. The words stayed jumbled behind her lips and as the doctor's nimble fingertips plucked gently at her nipple she groaned instead.

"I know, baby," Marilyn whimpered. He stiffened, his hips grinding absently against the edge of the bed.

She watched in dumb silence as Oliver leaned in, tilted his head, and kissed her deeply.

He cupped her face in his hand, moving his lips slow against hers. The sensation of Johnny suckling at her breast and Oliver's tongue in her mouth was all at once too much; Marilyn jerked backwards, pulling her face from his palm and breaking the kiss.

"Oliver, I can't," she mumbled.

The doctor got to his feet and began pacing the basement like a caged animal. His hands flexed and unflexed; he stopped at the workbench, looked it over, and suddenly banged his fist against the wall where his tools hung in neat rows. A few fell off and clattered on the metallic surface. The sound made her jump, jostling Johnny in her arms. The baby unlatched from her breast, looked confused for a moment, then sought the source of milk again with his wet little mouth.

"You _can't,"_ Oliver spat, banging the wall again. "That's all I hear from you, you can't, you can't. Are you going to give up? Like _her?" _He turned on Marilyn, his dark eyes flashing angrily. "Just one day up and _leave_, decide you can't anymore and leave us both here alone?"

"No, baby, no," she begged, her eyes drifting closed. The pain was growing stronger now and Johnny was beginning to squirm. He'd be done feeding soon and then thank god, she could hand him back to Oliver and sleep again.

"_Look at me!" _the doctor screamed, and Marilyn's eyes snapped open.

He was furious, his shoulders heaving, his teeth bared in the predatory way she knew he wasn't aware of. If only she didn't hurt so badly, if only her head wasn't swimming, maybe she could figure out how to placate him, but the parts she had used in the past to comfort the beast were out of commission.

She took a moment, breathing deeply through her nose, and forced a smile.

"I'm sorry, baby, how rude of me," Marilyn murmured. "Come here. Come sit with me." She shifted Johnny in her arms. He had unlatched again, meaning he was full, so she pulled him up to her shoulder and began patting his back gently for burps.

Oliver glared at her and didn't move.

"I'm not going to leave you." She knew how silly this was, the chain still clanking quietly around her ankle, but it was all part of the game, the game of survival, the words he needed to hear to keep from surrendering to his anger and ending her life. "Baby, you know that. I love you. I love Johnny."

Marilyn felt the smile falter on her lips and willed it to stay there.

"This is my family, baby," she said softly, begging him with her eyes. "Mommy's not going anywhere."

Another long, tense moment passed between them. At last, Oliver moved slowly towards her, the look of cold fury still on his face, and took Johnny in his arms. Marilyn made a noise of protest, reaching for the baby, but the doctor wrapped him in his blanket and placed Johnny back into the crib.

Without saying another word, he crossed back to her I.V. stand and adjusted her medication with the precision of a medical professional.

"Oliver," Marilyn pleaded, trying to take her hand in his, but he was already out of reach and heading for the stairs.

"You're right," he said quietly, almost as if to himself. "You're not going anywhere."

Then the door closed and the fog returned and she was gone again.

* * *

The next time the fog lifted, it only lifted enough for her eyes to open; it was like dreaming, but Marilyn knew she wasn't dreaming because why would she dream about being in this godforsaken basement?

It was dark, nighttime; her eyes kept drifting open and closed. So hard to focus. Yet it was okay because Johnny was there, he was feeding and that was good, the slow pleasant warmth spread through her and she kept her eyes closed for a moment, enjoying the sensation, the sweet bonding between mother and son.

Marilyn lifted her half-numb hand to stroke the downy fuzz of Johnny's head and felt, instead, the thick hair of a man.

She forced her lids to open again, it was like rolling a boulder up a hill but she managed. In the blue-tinted moonlight of the basement she saw his lithe form crouched over her, his knees on either side of her waist, his back arched like a cat's as he suckled away at her breast.

A part of her had always known it would come to this; the doctor would be unable to resist his deepest urges for maternal love, and with her in this state it was like dangling raw meat in front of a hungry tiger. Still, she knew it was wrong, she couldn't let him, but her hand fell limply back to the bed before she could push him away.

The medicine. He'd upped her medicine, drugged her into a state where she couldn't fight back, Marilyn knew this as well as her own name. She tried to form words but her lips wouldn't make them, couldn't make them, she was as helpless as the baby that slept soundly in his crib just a few feet away.

Oliver nursed hungrily, small growls escaping him as he drank like a man dying of thirst.

"Mommy," he mumbled against her skin, his hips bucking the air. She didn't need to look to know he had an erection.

He couldn't, he couldn't have her, she was broken down there, oh please god no...

But after a few minutes he began to slow, his gasps for breath between suckling growing more and more frequent. It occurred to her what he had said that morning, about the drugs in her system being in the milk too.

Clever as the doctor was, he had failed to realize in his plot to drug her into submission that he had drugged himself as well.

Oliver finally pulled back from her breast, breathing heavily, a confused frown twisting his thick brows. He glanced to her face and saw Marilyn was awake; a look spread across his features that made him resemble a guilty child.

"Mommy," he said again, but the drugs were hitting him fast. With fumbling hands he tucked her breast back inside her nightgown and settled down beside her, tucking himself into the curve of her side. His aftershave floated up to her in a ghostly wave as he leaned his nose against her neck.

"I love you." The doctor's words were a warm puff of air on her skin and then he was gone, already asleep, his chest rising and falling with deep serene breaths.

Marilyn laid there, unable to move, her mind racing for the first time in a long time. Was this really how she planned to spend her life? Chained to a bed in the basement, breastfeeding her lover who was really a notorious murderer? Was this what she wanted for her son?

The feeling was slowly coming back into her arms, and even as she laid there, her head swimming with doubts and fears, her maternal instinct kicked in; before she knew it, she was stroking Oliver's hair tenderly as he slept on her shoulder, his breath sweet with the scent of her own milk.


	3. Chapter 3

It went on like that for weeks.

Oliver returned to the asylum for work, leaving Marilyn and Johnny behind until the sun set and he joined them again in the basement. Family bonding time came next, the three of them nestled snugly in the bed together; baby nursed, then daddy nursed.

Sometimes he drugged her. Sometimes he didn't bother. She was weak, still recovering from the blood loss, and fighting was just beyond her grasp for the moment.

But her mind was sharp. Sharper than it had been in a long time. Marilyn finally knew, a cold stabbing sort of knowing that she'd tried to shake but couldn't – she knew it was time to find a way out. She was being chained to the bed in the basement and he'd never let her leave. Things that were precious were often kept under lock and key, and after bearing Oliver's child it was obvious he never planned to let her go.

In another life, before the baby, she thought maybe she could do it. Maybe they could live out the American dream, a handsome young doctor and his pretty witty wife, cozy and happy in their little bungalow. But that was before. Before Lana, before the breastfeeding. Before she'd seen the worrying sheen of insanity in his eyes.

Days went by. She fed her baby and her lover. She stared at the window in the corner, plotting how and when she might escape. Johnny would complicate things, yet there was no way she could leave him behind. Marilyn knew it would take a miracle, but she'd been through enough that she could still hope for one.

That was until she woke up to the doctor deftly fastening her wrists above her head.

Before she could even pull away, both her arms were immobile and Oliver was moving away from her.

"Oliver," Marilyn mumbled, the drugged blanket of sleep still thick over her eyes. "Oliver, what are you doing, please..."

"I've been patient with you, Marilyn." Satisfied that she was secure, Thredson began to unbutton his starched white shirt. He moved with the precision of a medical professional, his fingers swift and exact, his lips pressed together in a thin serious line. "I've given you time. I've made sure you're healed. And yet, you resist."

"No, Oliver, no," she said helplessly as he let his shirt flutter to the ground.

"You've done your duty as Johnny's mother. That, I can't deny." His dark eyes flicked to her and examined her prone body with a strange cocktail of desire and contempt. "But you have another baby to take care of."

"Oliver, I can't, I'm not ready..." Marilyn shook her wrists against the leather cuffs, frantic. "Please, baby, you have to understand-"

"I understand, Marilyn. More than you know." The doctor removed his black-rimmed glasses and set them gently next to the sink. He turned back to her, moving with a slow catlike precision. "I've been thinking about this for quite some time."

"Please, baby, please, think of Johnny-"

"I've put him in his crib upstairs for the evening." Oliver looked her face over, then made a noise of disgust in his throat. "Don't look so scared, Marilyn, damn it, I'm a doctor, I know what I'm doing!"

She began to cry, and the sound of it was pitiful even to her own ears. Out of patience, he pinched her nose shut between two strong fingers; when she gasped for breath immediately, a small tablet was dropped into her open mouth and a hand kept her jaw clamped shut.

Marilyn knew this routine. She'd performed it once before herself. It was the strange medicine Oliver had brought home to make Lana's transition "easier".

Her panicked tongue tried to fish the pill out of the back of her throat but it was too late, it was gone, lost forever, soon the drug's effect would kick in and she would be as helpless as the lady reporter had been in the exact same spot.

"Open your mouth," Oliver demanded, and Marilyn obeyed, defeated. He looked inside intently, then after a moment released her chin and turned away. "Good. I'll be back when it's taken affect."

She didn't bother to beg anymore. He was beyond begging, she knew. The long-legged doctor climbed the stairs and out of her sight.

Marilyn breathed heavily through her nose, trying to keep her wits about her. She was powerless to stop the drug, and she had seen what it did to Lana; her body would soon be overwhelmed by sensation, Oliver would take what he wanted.

Johnny. She had to get Johnny. She had to get her baby and escape, this place was turning into her own personal Briarcliff, it was a madhouse, she was chained to the goddamned bed...

Her thoughts began to break apart and scatter. She felt a slow wave of pleasure rolling through her, starting with her toes and moving up, a warm tingle not unlike the one she felt when smoking marijuana. Marilyn fought it, struggled to stay in control, but soon it was out of her hands completely.

Her skin felt flushed, as though she was being warmed by a cozy fire; her nerve endings were ablaze. It was nearly too much to handle, her thoughts were scrambling away from her like rats off a sinking ship.

Footfalls thundered down the steps like gunfire. She jerked at the unexpected noise and felt her whole body respond with a strange surge of pleasure.

The doctor moved back into her vision, almost impossibly clear, his edges crisp and sharp. She felt a sudden need to touch his skin, grip the firm muscles of his arms, bury her nose in his dark fragrant hair.

"Marilyn," Oliver murmured, and the word echoed through her bones like something sugary-sweet.

He moved towards her silkily, seeming to shimmer somehow, and the sight made her laugh for some reason. Still clad in just his tight white undershirt and pressed black pants, he managed to maintain the air of authority he no doubt exuded over his patients in the asylum.  
"Marilyn, how do you feel?"

"Mmm," she said cryptically, trying to form words with her mouth and failing somehow.

The doctor sat beside her on the bed, his dark eyes studying her with a steely sort of patience.

Without saying a word, he began to stroke the side of her neck with two gentle fingertips. After a long, uncertain moment, he spoke.

"I remember how you looked," Oliver said, his low voice buzzing through her brain, "the first night we were together." He licked his lips in a sort of quick nervous gesture, then turned towards the workbench. When he whirled back to the bed where she lay prone, he had a scalpel in one hand.

"Oliver," she mumbled dumbly, but he began cutting away at the white cotton nightgown she'd grown to hate so much.

"In your bedroom window." The material made a soft purring sound as it tore apart between her breasts, then at her arms, before the whole thing was just a limp piece of useless material that he threw to the side, leaving her nude as the day she was born. His job done, Oliver looked back to her body, eating her up with his eyes. "You were beautiful. You knew it, didn't you?" The lilt of his voice was both accusing and aroused.

"Oliver," Marilyn said again, but now his hand was stroking the space just above her hips and she was unable to stop the mewl that escaped her.

"You took your clothes off. No woman had ever done that for me before." Oliver watched her carefully, his breath growing heavy despite himself. "You were so beautiful... and I knew..." His fingertips grazed dangerously close to her womanhood and Marilyn cried out, but he seemed to ignore her. She opened her thighs for him, whimpering.

His dark eyes caught hers and even in her drug-induced state, she saw their desperation.

"You were calling to me," the doctor whispered.

She was writhing now, in desperate need of some sort of real contact, so she summoned everything she had in her.

"Baby," Marilyn purred, her hips bucking towards him insistently, "of course I was."

She saw him move towards her in an automatic response to her seduction, the front of his pants tented predictably, then back away.

"Too easy," Oliver murmured. He wanted to touch her, she could see it in the twitching of his fingers, but he had a different result in mind.

"Baby," she said again, and the doctor began stroking the space between her legs lightly, so delicately it was nearly a feather's touch, something almost maddening.

"Mommy's been neglecting her baby." There was a strange kind of thickness to his voice, a tone that suggested he'd been betrayed somehow, abandoned in the wake of the birth of their son, but how could that be? She'd let him feed from her breast, what more could he want, oh god, but even now she knew what he wanted, he wanted to be her baby and baby was jealous...

Her frantic scattered thoughts were vanishing like snowflakes on a warm windowpane. The sensation between her thighs was unbearable, it was all at once amazing and yet not enough, she needed more, more, more.

"Please, baby," Marilyn managed, but instead his hands moved away from her womanhood, drifted over the gentle curves of her hips and waist.

"I know it's difficult for you," Oliver said softly, licking his lips again. "You must find a balance between your boys. We both need you, desperately." His breath grew heavier and even through her haze she knew he was struggling to wait. "In different ways."

His fingers spidered over her stomach, around the outside of her breasts. She was making quiet whining sounds almost constantly now, her whole body alight with sensation so strong she could barely handle it.

"Make love to me," she whispered helplessly, and the doctor was suddenly moving away from her, his fumbling hands stripping the white tank top from his back, shucking the pants and underwear from his hips. Naked now, he climbed on top of her, but even though she spread her thighs wide he didn't enter her.

Oliver leaned over her, hovering, his face so close to hers their lips nearly touched.

"Stay with me," he whispered, and lowered his mouth to her neck, kissing and sucking gently, driving her absolutely wild.

That was it. He had won. Her hands flexed helplessly against the leather restraints but all Marilyn could do was beg for him to touch her, to let her touch him, the words pouring from her like water overflowing from a dam that she was unable to stop. She barely heard herself. All she knew was that she suddenly needed the doctor like she'd never needed anything before in her life.

With a growl he began unfastening her wrists from the cuffs with desperate fingers. The moment she was free Marilyn dove her hands into his hair, ran them over his dark-furred chest, gripped his hips and pulled them towards hers.

They were like two animals pawing at each other. Oliver captured her mouth with his, delving his tongue deep inside, and finally drove his rock hard cock into her warm wet center. Somewhere a woman screamed but she realized dully that it had actually been her own voice echoing in the the cold dank basement; it didn't matter, all that mattered was how good she felt, how absolutely phenomenal, how much her body had missed his. All the fear and terror was gone.

"Baby," Marilyn heard herself mumbling, nearly incoherent, her palms running over his skin in frantic little strokes. "Baby, baby, Mommy missed you..."

Oliver was thrusting his hips over and over, his teeth gritted together. He had waited too long, she knew that now, it had been cruel of her to make him wait so long.

She wrapped both her legs around his waist and pulled him as close as she could, bucking her hips frantically, increasing the speed to a fever pitch. It was too much; Oliver groaned as he came explosively into her, pressing his forehead against hers.

Marilyn mewled softly, the very fact that he'd come pushing her over the edge to an indescribable orgasm. She raked her fingers through his hair and let the waves of pleasure flow over her. His thick brows twisted, he moaned again with a few more thrusts, and at last he slowed to a stop.

Before he could pull away she folded her arms behind his neck, keeping him close, unable to bear the thought of his skin leaving hers.

Somewhere in the back of her mind Marilyn knew, she knew the drugs would wear off and she'd be left with the reality of her situation once again, the chain and the basement and the baby, but for now she relished the scent of his aftershave, the feel of his flesh, the soft puffs of breath in her ear. It was the sweet relief of not being able to worry anymore, and coupled with it was the sinking sensation that while she thought she'd severed the tie between them, it still held fast, somehow.

Somehow.


End file.
